


Mind Games

by devotchka



Category: Dead or Alive (Video Games)
Genre: Chaotic Narrator, Fix-It of Sorts, Friends to Lovers, Identity Issues, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Canon, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 12:32:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17918900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devotchka/pseuds/devotchka
Summary: I’m not as independent as you think I am, and I desperately, wildly need you.*After the events of Dead or Alive 6, Rig struggles to find his sense of self. His memories are fleeting, blurry, and unreliable. Meanwhile, a chance reunion with Diego stirs up something new.A story told in two parts.





	Mind Games

It’s winter, and they meet up at the diner. A six-month gap stood in between today and the last time they spoke, and neither of them could say with certainty why they felt compelled to break it now. There isn’t much reason to, Rig thinks, but there was never any reason to stick his nose in Diego’s life at all, and he did that unashamedly.

Diego looks happier now. Or maybe that’s just projection.

“You’re the first person that ever talked to me like that,” Diego admits, “about having goals or an independent future.”

Rig finds it endearing, how happy that new perspective makes him, how chance and absurdity sometimes lead to better things. They’re one in the same like that – lucky to be free from their cages.

The initial reunion passes, and they casually decide to stay in touch. They continue to meet up. They spar, sometimes. They talk for hours. They drive beyond the city, anywhere, just to see what’s out there. 

There’s something about Diego – his newfound need for betterment, maybe – that keeps Rig coming back, never bored.

*

They’re out one night, Diego driving and Rig leaning back as far as his seat will let him, feet propped up on the dashboard. This far along the tournament never really gets brought up, but tonight, for some reason, it does.

It’s Diego’s fault, as he mentions, “I just realized that I never asked if you went to the sixth tournament. You had other friends there, right?”

“Bass and his daughter.” Rig says, then, less pleasantly, “I did go, but I don’t have much to say about it.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t.” 

Diego frowns, and for some reason, Rig feels guilty. He remembers that it was him who guilted Diego into going at all, and yeah, that’s probably got something to do with it. The man might deserve some honesty.

“I don’t remember it.” Rig admits. “I know that I went, and I remember blurs of the first day, but the next thing I can pull up is being back in New York. That whole chunk of time doesn’t really exist for me.”

There’s a soft “oh”, and then more silence after he says it. Rig never feels good bearing that piece of himself to others. It’s unfixable, it’s ugly, and in his experience, people often don’t know how to address unfixable things like that unless it’s with unwanted condolences.

“So is that normal for you?” Diego asks.

“It comes and goes. There are a lot of gaps in my memory.”

“Well, with the kind of life you’ve had, I can see why you’re so dead set against settling on things.”

Rig just backchannels, a soft “uh-huh” in acknowledgement, but he thinks it’s better than pity.

At home that night, he finds himself restless. He has fucked up dreams. He wakes up sick, his heart pounding fast as he tries to recollect what small, abstract pieces he can: horrendous pain, the sound of his own screams, a sense of detachment from himself. Everywhere, blinding whiteness.

*

He’s too focused on it now. He’s too bothered by the way his memories just slip away from him, and the way he can’t control it. He thought that after the oil platform collapsed it might be easier to piece himself together, but he’s realizing it’s inevitable.

He’s lost track of himself once already. Was it truly just once so far?

He can’t be sure.

Diego keeps him grounded, more often than not, and Rig commits himself to remembering the things they do and see. He holds onto tangibility. He tells himself, constantly, memorize this.

Diego doesn’t ask him if he remembers things anymore. He tells him to enjoy life while it’s happening.

It’s the best Rig could’ve hoped for, but it isn’t enough.

*

If there’s one thing Rig feels like he’s undeniably good at, it’s his new job. He manages Bass and Tina well, and their careers are flourishing. It also means his hours are conveniently adjustable.

So when Bass asks him where he’s headed at two thirty in the afternoon, he thinks nothing of it when he replies, “I have a thing with Diego today.”

Bass steps in between him and the door, all three hundred and fifty pounds of him, and he has that paternal look on his face. The rare one that means there’s a talk coming. He’s been looking at him that way a lot since the tournament.

Rig stops in his tracks. He even backsteps a bit, just enough to be able to look the man in his face. “Everything okay, big guy?”, he asks.

“You and that boy are awfully close, Rig.”

It’s odd to mention, but it’s fair. He does mention Diego plenty. “Maybe. Is it a problem?”

“Of course not. I just wanna let you know right now,” Bass replies, “that if he doesn’t treat you right, you come to me and I’ll handle it.”

“Huh?” 

Why would he care about that? They get along fine, and he’s never suggested otherwise. He wouldn’t even waste time on someone he didn’t like being around.

This sounds like the lectures Bass gives his daughter when she starts sleeping with someone new, and that’s… _oh_. Oh, fuck.

“I- “, he starts, flustered as he puts Bass’ point together, and then he gives in. “…Okay.”

Bass squeezes his shoulder in one of his you’re-like-a-son-to-me gestures. He steps aside, and Rig leaves, feeling a little more stressed than he did two minutes ago.

Him and Diego. Like _that_. Did he want that?

He can’t remember ever looking at anyone that way before. It’s the first time he really considers it.

*

They’re just killing hours again, himself and Diego, when he’s outright asked about his memory. It’s the first time since his admittance about it. 

They’re where Diego’s small fight club occasionally happens. Tonight, it’s empty, just concrete and breakable wooden pallets. Maybe Diego was hoping that location really can stir up recollections, but it isn’t doing a ton for Rig, and it’s confusing.

“I never would have thought it would end up like this. You were so rude.” Diego muses, and Rig half listens, trying to recall it the same.

He does remember a general scene, a broad recollection of energies, people that might’ve never been there. Bass, maybe? A weird ninja thing? That can’t be right. But he can make out faces he has no real names for, just nonsense, and nothing else.

He’s vaguely aware of his disconnected hum of a response, leaning against the chain linked cage, caught up in mental gymnastics.

“You okay?” Diego asks.

“I remember being nervous more than having an attitude.”

“Well, you didn’t look like it to me, but maybe you were. You would know better.”

He almost rolls his eyes. He almost wants to catch an attitude. He doesn’t believe Diego, not even for a second. What comes out of his mouth, more confrontational than he might’ve liked, is an exhausted, “Would I?”

He doesn’t finish, but they both see the silent implication – _maybe I just forgot._

Diego’s face softens. It’s obvious to Rig now, how much he wants to fix him, and how ironic that is. He wants to say something – ‘you aren’t indebted to me’, or ‘I’m just always going to be like this’, or anything – but then Diego is touching him. It’s platonic, just hands pressing against his upper arms, but he suddenly feels small in between him and the cage.

For several reasons, it’s not quite reassuring. It’s something else.

“You know who you are. The fine details don’t matter.” Diego says.

Rig sighs. He doesn’t shrug him off or move. He doesn’t even want to look at him. In the silence, Diego pulls him in, and he feels even more mixed up.

*  
Each morning, normally, Rig stretches. It’s a part of the martial art he chose (Did he? He doesn’t quite remember.) and it’s not a bad habit to have if he wants to keep throwing his legs around as he does.

It feels absurd to him that he remembers all the motions to go through, unquestionably, reflexively – that he’s held onto these splits and bends and kicks while so much else slips away.

So, this morning, he decides to abandon martial arts halfway through.

Still dressed in workout clothes, he searches his house for a pen and a notebook. Apparently, even though he feels like he hardly has two functioning brain cells sometimes, he’s not been much for writing things down. Ever. It’s a long search.

Instead of working out he spends time thinking, writing back as far as he can remember and in as much detail as possible. He writes about living in the middle of the ocean, where he’s told he grew up, and about his last year there with Bass. He writes about the move to New York and the frantic blurriness of it all. He writes about Diego, the man whose life he spontaneously decided to mess with.

It isn’t a long process. He doesn’t have a childhood; he doesn’t have a name. He focuses on chronology over emotions: what he’s seen and touched and heard. It takes…maybe an hour. His entire life, in an hour and five pages.

*

It’s freezing outside. The wind is unforgiving, and the ice-coated roads are worse. They stay inside, watching bad horror films and making equally bad jokes, until it gets late and they’re tired. Rig is half awake, sprawled out across most of the couch, his head against Diego’s shoulder.

They’ve gotten touchier with each other recently. Maybe, subtly, Rig thinks he encourages it. He might be confused about what he’s doing here – with his life, with Diego – but he isn’t confused anymore about his intentions.

Those little touches here and there are exciting. They’re distracting. They’re more important than his need to obsessively linger over the abstract and the inevitable, and that makes him want more. It’s so easy to get lost in Diego’s warmth, and his kindness, and he indulges in it recklessly.

So recklessly that he can’t quite bottle it up anymore. 

The evening gets late. Diego mentions the time. Something about how his mother is going to freak out if she doesn’t hear from him all night. And it’s now or never.

“I do just _love_ wasting whole, entire days at your place,” Diego’s saying, about to get up, “but- “

Rig presses a hand against his chest, keeping him in place. It’s more effective than he thought. Diego looks to him, a little confused, and he says, not quite sure where he’s heading, “One thing first before you go. I, um…”, he pauses. This is going to be way harder than he thought. Just say something. Anything. “Diego, this entire past year has been so fucking weird to me, and…”

And what?

_And I don’t know what I’m doing._

_And I’m out of control._

_And I’m not as independent as you think I am, and I desperately, wildly need you._

Those words don’t come, and his resolve collapses. He closes what little distance sits between them before he can talk himself out of it, kissing him, finally, far gentler than he imagined it would be. He feels needy. He feels helpless to this undying urge, and it only worsens as Diego kisses him back, grabbing at his waist and guiding him into his lap.

Rig is all too willing.

Diego never rushes him, for the most part following whatever pace he wants to set. Was he trying to respect his boundaries or was he just humoring him? He starts to question and doubt, not knowing that he doesn’t need to.

“I love you,” Diego says in between slow, lingering kisses. “I love you.”

Rig tries to capture what that sounds like, to learn it by rote, to somehow make sure that this, too, isn’t just another thing to be forgotten, but he can’t entirely be sure.


End file.
